and other funny stories.

We hosted a dinner party for three women and three men. Two of the women are in a long-term relationship. One of the men is in a long-term relationship with one of the women. That leaves two men unaccounted for.

It’s not that I hate being framed by the lens of a camera, rather it’s that I hate what it might “see”.

Out of my profile a nose arcs out like a parrot’s beak. My mouth is typically caught open in a gaping guffaw or wide smile that forces my lips into the shape of a curly bracket } and my cheeks into a featureless beach ball. And, the penance I pay for a lush head of hair? A peach-fuzzed visage topped off with a post-partum shadow over my upper lip. My patchy skin, my short forehead, my bushy eyebrows, my thick neck… the list of critiques is lengthy and I haven’t even begun to describe below my shoulders!

I love a good photo, but a dreadful one is even better! Especially this one for its pairing with the birth of an adoption; a process I can’t wait to follow.

This past spring I FaceBook posted a truly epic photo of me. I was in all of my glory – disheveled hair, buggy wild eyes, and a strained expression extending from collarbone to forehead. You can imagine the comments (I love you all, I really do).

The truth is that photo was one of the more important ones taken of me in my entire life.

That wintry and blustery day last spring, Martin and I had rushed during our lunch hour to get an RCMP clearance check. We handed over several pieces of ID, got fingerprinted, and then photographed. A few weeks later, we had another important piece of documentation in our hands – confirmation by Interpol that we are clear of any previous criminal activity. Another hurdle cleared.

We’ve been doing a lot of high jumping this past year……….because there’s a lot of paperwork to be done when you’re…

I hear the furnace rev up, readying to deliver the day’s warmth. Heat is energy and so is sound. It’s more than just fan noise. In the cold there is silence, in the warmth there is sound.

My body is humming.

As if mocking my reverie, the music visualizer on my laptop is pulsing in an electric light show. Even in the silence there is sound expressed in light and shapes and flashes of darkness. I press the mute button and the sources of the vibrant show suddenly flood my ear canals.

… The Yukon keeps me up all night

Complications seize your best…

Drums punctuate guitar riffs, rolling and stopping, pacing the vibrations as if the drumheads themselves were plucking the strings. Voices exchange words and sometimes interrupt. It is a love song. It’s on repeat and I replay the night before.

was how her story began.

I was meeting her for the first time, but she felt she knew me.

‘Some of my daughter’s classmates told her she was too small to play their game,’ she explained, ‘and I overheard him tell her “Do you know what? One of the greatest basketball players in our school is one of the smallest kids I know.” I’m not sure he knows what that meant to her, but she certainly does.’

I have worried about raising a sensitive boy who is acutely aware of what is fair and what is not. Is it fair to impose my values about fairness and kindness and inclusiveness on him?

He’s the one who has to navigate his own world, not me. Am I putting him at a disadvantage? Is he cursed to become a doormat or someone’s punching bag? Should he be tougher?

We were just two moms ducking Vancouver’s spring rain and suddenly her words celebrated a boy, my boy, who stands up for fairness and kindness and inclusiveness.

Now I know there is no one braver and I’m proud of him, but most of all, now I know he (along with everyone around him) will be okay.